Slice of life: Vacation blues
This summer has kept me in stitches, both literally and figuratively. For example, I really had to laugh when I realized that the Shelter Island Bridge and Tunnel Authority had been right again, when it predicted several months ago that the “cable project” would stretch into the summer, confounding traffic in the Heights and rendering a good portion of beach unusable.
What is surprising is that no lawyers, insurance companies or Osprey-rights activists seem to have had a part in the delay. A casual conversation with someone who seemed to know what was happening revealed that the tunnel was completed, and now, the same machine that will go over to Southold and pull these three 3600-foot pipes through the hole, was pulling a device somewhat like a giant Q-tip from the north side. This is to ensure that everything goes smoothly when it’s time to pull all the tentacles through.
In an attempt to get further details on what might have possibly prolonged this project to such an extent, I sauntered down to the site with clipboard in hand. I was met by a man in a hardhat who seemed concerned for some reason that a local with a backwards cap, sunglasses and flip-flops was trying to gain access to an area that contained enough heavy equipment to move the earth off its axis. I was referred to a nice man from LIPA who gave me a bunch of numbers and official people to talk to. When I get the whole picture I will probably find out that this job is similar in some ways to what an average do-it-yourselfer attempts, in that it always takes three times as long and costs four times as much as originally planned. The major difference, of course, is that if these guys are missing a part or something breaks they just can’t run to the hardware store 60 times like I do. I must say, though, that the people who are holding signs that tell you to stop, slow down, or that you can’t go somewhere have been very pleasant. When thwarted in an attempt to use New York Avenue to go get the mail, I was very accurately and politely informed when access to the road would be restored, not that it made it any less of a butt-ache to have to go down to Route 114 and through a now much busier than usual Bridge Street.
That trip reminded me of the infamous Bridge Street bridge project that took what seemed like a year to complete. Remember the temporary traffic light, the first and only one in the history of Shelter Island, that was placed by the Mobil station? And how about all the giant truck traffic that had to wend its way perilously along the narrow, silver maple-lined New York Avenue, the very same route now in the “forbidden zone?” What a nightmare. I think the Army Corps of Engineers was somehow involved in the construction, and I remember wondering at the time how the same organization that could move an entire battalion across a river by constructing a pontoon bridge in maybe three days would have such trouble making a 60- or 80-foot concrete structure.
Thing is, there never seems to be a good time to do any major construction project. Take fencing for example. Please. I’m talking lots and lots of fencing, maybe 700 or 800 feet. This fence has to keep toddlers out of the pool, keep the dog from getting out of the yard and traipsing down West Neck Road, and keep the deer from getting into the yard after traipsing down West Neck Road. The 6-foot “yard-guard” and 4-foot “pool fence” around the entire perimeter, with opening-outward, self-closing maximum 2-inch clearance from the ground entry gates required the installation of 50, count ‘em, 50, metal stakes with evil teeth.
This is where the “literal stitches” part comes in. Only two stakes away from completing the entire project, I hefted the 40-pound “stake-pounder” and pushed it up from beneath. (This stake-pounder is a very useful tool, and every time I use it I am happy I bought it. It prevents the hapless homeowner from standing perilously on a ladder and mushrooming the head of the stake with a heavy hammer or maul. However, it is not without its own dangers, as we shall see.) As it fell earthward it trapped the tip of my right ring finger on one of the stake’s evil teeth, resulting in an expletive, a howl and a quick trip to Dr. Kelt with helpmate at the wheel. After syringing some lidocaine into what he termed a “semi-complicated crushing partial avulsion,” he sewed my digit with five stitches.
Growlingly admonished by the Doc to avoid any strenuous work for the next few days, I thought that today, taking in the laundry would be a helpful chore that I could perform without hurting myself. That was until I freed the line-separator pulley to start reeling in the clothes. The released tension on the top line sent the pulley somehow into the air, and on descent it hit me squarely on the cranium.
I think I need a vacation from vacation!
